


Twenty Two

by lameafpun



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen, Reader-Insert, Sad, a dog dies so, be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 14:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12037491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: Dogs should be able to live forever.





	Twenty Two

His name was Dorito, and he was the best present any kid could have asked for their eighth birthday. (The little bow he’d had taped to his back - it had been bright purple with yellow polka-dots and it clashed horribly with Dorito’s fur - was kept in a box that sat on the highest shelf in the bedroom closet. It was too precious to throw away.)

He was a mutt, a beautiful mutt that had tawny, ginger fur and floppy ears. White fur ran from underneath his chin, reaching down to his chest. There were another few spots of white, dusting the area above and around his nose and there was a sharp, narrow strip that ran from the patch above his nose to the top of his head. 

With his fur pattern, it was either Creamsicle or Dorito. 

With his eyes (which were a deep, kind golden brown that retained their playfulness even into old age) it was either Sweetie or Chocolate. 

 

One look between the golden brown and (color) was all that was needed before he was christened ‘Dorito’.

 

Dorito came into the family when he still a puppy. Small, rambunctious, and three months old. A little bundle of fur and energy who hated putting on a collar, but would forget about it the moment the front door would open and the whole family would have to run after him to keep the little troublemaker from running into the street. 

The fur ball that would run into the busy street was one and the same with the puppy who was scared of jumping off the couch, the same one who’d look up at you with those adorable amber eyes, guilt tripping you into carrying him off the couch. 

 

It was a few months after Dorito came home. It had been absurdly late, later than an eight-year-old should ever be up. The little puppy bed that had been nestled between the wall and the side of the couch was empty. You laid on the carpet, blankets and pillows surrounding you and the little puppy Dorito that had been cuddled up into your side, the moonlight shining in from the wall length window. His tawny flank rose and fell steadily, tail wagging and shifting even in sleep and his little paws, with their baby pink pads, pawed the front of your sleep shirt gently. You tugged him closer to your chest gently, a sleepy smile spreading across your face as his fuzzy puppy fur brushes against you. 

He whines in his sleep and a fleeting thought snags in your mind, and as soon as it’s processed in the unusually mature eight-year-old mind, you want to hold Dorito closer. How would I cope with losing my Chip?

Quickly, you do the math in your head. 

Twelve to fifteen years. That was a lot of time. By that time, this eight-year-old kid would be a twenty-two year old - an adult. 

Yeah, an adult. And, you reasoned, looking down at Dorito while something in your chest twisted, adults are way more mature, more equipped to deal with . . . adult things. 

The next morning, that late night revelation is forgotten.

 

The week after that is the first day of school and you are loathe to part with your dear Dorito. To mollify your pout and shiny eyes, your parents let you walk Dorito to school and you hug him goodbye at the school gates. While your mom surreptitiously snaps a photo, your father waits for Dorito to touch the ground before he tugs on the leash and they’re on the way back home. (e/c) eyes watch the little tawny puppy trot behind the couple, looking back for one last glance and a sad, farewell bark before turning back around. 

 

Three years later, it’s a tradition and three pictures of your and Dorito on the first day of school decorate your desk. In just a few years, he’d grown from your little puppy to a medium sized dog who could get up onto the living room couch by himself now (but make no mistake, he was still your little puppy).

 

Six years after that it’s your second year in high school and Dorito has been deemed old enough by your parents to walk to school to greet you after school, and the club you attend doesn’t mind him walking in and hanging out. He snoozes by your bag until it’s time to go. 

 

A day in spring, when the year has just begun, you’re in club and Dorito had been laying on the ground, but a quick look downward reveals nothing but the floor. The club members had remained your friends from last year and they abandon their current project to help you search for your puppy. As you jog through the halls, checking each open door, you swear to yourself that Dorito isn’t going to get another treat for the next month for wandering off like this (you’ve never been able to stop your will from crumbling in the face of his puppy eyes, though).

The squeak of basketball shoes draws you to the gymnasium. Then, as you get closer, it’s the excited yips and scratch of nails against wood (“(name), I told you to trim his nails! It’s been a month already, and you’re still putting it off!” “I know, mom.” But then again, knowing something didn’t always translate into action) that makes you slid open the door with a bang, and an intensity that only seemed to surface when it came to Dorito. 

Dogs weren’t allowed in school, some rule or code about kids and allergies and the endangerment of property (probably, you hadn’t even read the entirety of the rules and remembered even less) and any dog caught in school without the proper registration and notifications would result in strong words between the principal and owner of the dog. 

The door and the slam is forgotten, however, as soon as you see Dorito. Worry is coming off you in waves, you’re sure, but all everyone else can see is a student with a severe scowl that makes them seem older (“Wrinkles aren’t attractive honey, use cream-“ “Mo-om!”) and hands that are settled on hips in a pose that would have been intimidating if the object of the stare wasn’t a poor, floppy eared, happy ginger dog. 

“Dorito!” He’s very familiar with this voice and, to the sorrow of some of the players who actually really like the four legged addition (“He could be our mascot!” “He’s also not our dog, dumbass.”), trots happily over to you, tail wagging - though it becomes less enthusiastic as he approaches, peering up at you with an amber gaze that almost has you melting. “Where have you been? You’re supposed to stay in the club room with me. We talked about this man, god - Dorito, are you listening to me?” 

He barked at someone behind you, which you took as an infuriatingly definitive ’nope.’

“Goddamnit, Dorito, if we get caught - “ 

“What? That’s a stupid name.”

“You’re a stupid name.” Was the intelligent rebuke and as you turned to make your way out of the gym, face burning and holding out a hand to gesture to Dorito to follow, your eyes met with a pair of lazy blues and it was love at first sight. 

(Not really - nobody insulted Dorito and got away with it. But he had all the guys on the basketball team charmed and the pink haired club manager - Momoi - had decided he must be the team’s mascot.)

(He got a little crocheted crown that was secured on his head with a thick piece of velcro. It was . . . so cute. You were sure you were going to die when Momoi brought him out for the first time, golden crown perched on his head and looking regal as a king.)

Dorito actually really liked the guy who had insulted his name, Aomine Daiki. And despite the gruff, lazy exterior Aomine seemed to have, he doted on his team’s new mascot. 

Every game Tōo won, the team would take out everyone and have a small celebration (but it was really for Dorito, who was just happy people he liked were spending time with him). 

When the team lost . . . well, there weren’t many occurrences of that. 

 

( Bark!

“Oh my god Dorito, did you take that from someone? You know you’re not supposed to - Aomine?!” 

“Um,” Embarrassed cough, “You want to go to - justreadthedamnthing!”

“ . . . you used my dog for a promposal? You’re such a romantic!” 

“Shuddup.”)

 

\--

 

Dorito had started to grow pudgy in his later years, when you’re nineteen and one year into college. He’d always been a husky little guy - and his eating habits probably weren’t helped with the overfeeding that had been going on since the beginning of the year. You and Aomine had never really worried about it. 

It’s not until he stops eating and his breathing gets heavier that he’s brought to the vet, and are assured that it’s because he’s overweight and needs to be put on a diet. 

He hollows out. 

 

-

 

At the end of the year, you have a new altar at the apartment you and Aomine share. You remember the little calculation made all the way back in second grade and hurt, because you’re only nineteen - cheated out of three more years. 

You don’t feel like an adult. 

 

-

 

When you look out from the stage, there’s a sea of proud faces. 

The hats fly up into the air, thick with shiny black and tired accomplishment and the certificate is light in your left hand, your right heavy and warm with another’s. (He’s tan as ever and fidgeting nervously)

 

-

 

You find out why when you get back home and a little tawny puppy is waiting there with your parents. He’s shyer and there’s no couch in the living room (because textbooks - why the hell are textbooks so damn expensive?) but he’s excited in a way that reminds you of Dorito. He doesn’t have a bow, though. 

 

-

 

Cheeto isn’t that small anymore when he trots up to your work desk on the weekend - a Saturday - and has a little black velvet box in his mouth. It’s covered in slobber but as you open it, the ring inside sparkles and Cheeto’s tail wags happily.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post found on imgur: "When I was 12 I got a dog for my birthday. 
> 
> He ended up being my best mate. 
> 
> One day while I laid next to him, I thought about how I didn’t think I’d be able to cope with losing him. 
> 
> I did the math in my head and took comfort in the fact that by the time I was 25 I’d surely be adult enough to deal with it. 
> 
> Nope."


End file.
